Hues of Blues and Greens (and a Bit of Red)
by Vaguefuture
Summary: It started when an ancient wizard of legends takes in a wounded immortal God of Mischief. Meanwhile, Thor gets sick and apparently, a man named Marvin Ambrose is the best doctor in the world, if the word of Tony Stark is to be believed. And really, Merlin has enough issues to deal with and can only hope that being caught in the crossfire is a good thing. (it's not)
1. Let's Meet Up?

**WARNINGS: **A bit of gore, mentions of torture and stuff. It's not really graphic 'cause I suck at describing things

**RATING:** For teenagers and above please!

**GENRE: **Hurt/Comfort, Angst, Friendship, Humor (a bit)

**A/N:** This idea gripped my mind and won't let go. It's giving me sleepless nights so I wrote it out. I'll try to continue it but I'll probably lose my muse after a while so anyone can ADOPT IT if they want. Just PM me and it's yours. Seriously.

I'VE NEVER READ THE MARVEL COMICS (but I did watch every Marvel movie) so I apologize in advance for any misinformation.

**ASTERISK** before a paragraph means, if you're a BBC MERLIN fan, you can skip that paragraph.

**DISCLAIMER: If I own BBC Merlin, I would not be an a-hole and kill Arthur off then make Merlin wait for a thousand years. If I own the comics Marvel or the Marvel Cinematic Universe, I would not get Tom Hiddleston as Loki so I could hate the villain properly and not get feels. That is all.**

**Unbeta'd so all mistakes are 'cause I'm a lazy person**

Winter in London was the most surreal sight one might experience.

The several impressive structures found there, like the London Bridge and the Big Ben, were blanketed by a sea of pure white. Trees and plants whose leaves had abandoned them scattered miserably in parks and pavements, traces of snow outlining their trunks like chalk-shaded portraits.

The light breeze whispered cold bites to anything in its path. And fortunately (or unfortunately, if you ask the giddy children running around the snow), snowflakes had ceased their falling. Above the heavy grey clouds and barely visible, the orange sun decided to swiftly sink into the horizon and took with it the last vestiges of warmth.

Vehicles of all kinds were moving at a snail's pace because of the icy roads. Most of the drivers huffed in annoyance at this. But it was either that or they risk slipping of the bridge

Wrapped in thick wool clothings and scarves, the good people of London pulled their jackets closer as they trudged by. Some were walking at a fast pace, eager to get into warmth; others, holding a cup of warm beverages and enjoying winter.

**~ . ~ . ~ . ~ . ~ . ~ . ~ . ~ . ~ . ~ . ~ . ~ . ~ . ~ . ~ . ~ . ~ . ~ . ~ . ~ . ~ . ~ . ~**

Several hours later, we go to a certain part of London.

A large beige-colored building with rectangular designs and sharp edges stood along the roads of Baker Street, a large "The Albion Hospital" engraved above its glass doorways.

A pale dark-haired young man pushed the fogged door open, letting in a gust of cold air.

"I'm off, Katie!" he beamed brightly, giving a small wave to the person behind the reception desk.

The white-clad blonde-haired girl with a crooked nurse cap atop her head smiled wearily in return. "You're too cheery for winter at this time of the night, Marvin." She said, a bit fond.

He laughed. "Don't overwork yourself. And that's _Doctor Ambrose_ to you." He replied lightheartedly but the girl, Katie, sensed the seriousness of his first statement.

Well, this particular doctor had always been stern in terms of the health of the people around him, be it be a friend or a stranger. It's what so endearing and lovable about him. He was genuinely one of the few I-became-a-doctor-to-help-people-and-cure-cancer type of guy. Marvin was no superhero in tights but he made her have faith in humanity again. However, Katie and approximately all the people working in or confined in the Albion Hospital could only wished that he had the same care for himself, the noble plonker.

"I will." She agreed to his silent demand. Then, she added sweetly, "Goodbye, _Doctor Rosey~"_

The doctor's eyebrows raised in surprise, stormy blue eyes inquiring. Then, he finally left, mumbling something about stupid-sounding nicknames and people's general meanness.

Katie chuckled.

**~ . ~ . ~ . ~ . ~ . ~ . ~ . ~ . ~ . ~ . ~ . ~ . ~ . ~ . ~ . ~ . ~ . ~ . ~ . ~ . ~ . ~ . ~**

Merlin (or rather, Marvin Ambrose as his birth certificate dictated) stepped out of the hospital's warmth and onto the cold pavement. Worn-out brown snow boots produced a squishy-crunchy sound as he walked down the ice-covered stairs. He placed his hands in the pockets of his thick cotton black jacket and glanced at the quickly darkening sky.

Well, it was very late evening (or very early morning) and there's only a slim chance of a cab conveniently passing by. Deciding, he started his trek home, which would take him about twenty minutes, instead of being a lazy sod and teleporting. He didn't have anything urgent to do anyways. The snow was about half an inch thick so it would be fairly easy.

*Before anyone gets confused, yes, he is _the _Merlin, (or Myrddin or Ambrosius or Wyllt or Aurelianus, and _gods_, how many names did Geoffrey have to invent to make it more dramatic?) immortal sorcerer of King Arthur Pendragon. And no, he is not and eighty year old senile man with a long white beard. That bit was an actual disguise because, well, magic was punishable by death back then and he'd like his head between his shoulders, thank you very much.

*And, unlike the twisted words written by misinformed aspiring poets, he was not King Arthur's advisor nor was he nobleman. In fact, he was born in a fairly small village, raised alone by a kind-hearted mother, and journeyed to Camelot at the tender age of seventeen to control his inborn magical talents and find his destiny. Apparently, this destiny was to be the personal manservant and secret protector of an arrogant supercilious bully who called himself Prince Arthur Pendragon. Which was disappointing and all kinds of horrible at first. He scrubbed wooden floors, do dirty laundry, fluff cotton pillows, polish bulky armor, muck the royal stables (though that wasn't really part of his job. Arthur was just that much of an ass), and saved everyone's lives with forbidden arts all the time (with the prince getting all the credit and him, all the chores).

*However, it got better. Apparently, Prince Arthur wasn't as much as a git as he first thought, what with him defending servants and peasants, fighting against his father for what he thinks was right, braving perilous lands to save the kingdom, and often attempting to sacrifice himself for the greater good (not that Merlin would let him). Merlin accompanied the prince in most of his quests because he would literally be lost with the servant. Arthur got increasingly noble when he was crowned king, ruling his people fairly and wisely (though maybe, the wise part came from Merlin's unacknowledged advice). He married for love to a maidservant Guinevere (yes, not of noble blood either, people), practically breaking the prejudiced lines between noble-blooded and not.

Merlin and Arthur bantered and bickered incessantly (often to lighten the mood in dire situations), ignoring the amused smiles of knights and servants hidden behind hands. They were best friends, even if they were the last people to admit it.

So maybe, it shouldn't come as a surprise when jealous fate decided to separate them in most vicious of ways on That Day.

Merlin quickened his stride, decidedly not thinking about the feel of blood in his hands, the clinking sound of chainmail, the dimming of bright blue eyes, and the rasp of desperate last words . . . Merlin shook his head but even the harsh whipping of the air around his face did not dissipate the morbid thoughts from his head.

He halted, panting with the exhaustion of a thousand years.

Calm down. _Calm down_. _Calm the bloody hell down_.

He heaved a great breath, the air minty and painful. Then, he released all his sorrows and troubles in one shaky exhale, forming tiny ice crystals in front of his face. It's embarrassing, how something that happened more than a thousand years ago could still make him feel like a train wreck.

_One thousand four hundred eighty-five years, two months, and twenty-three days to be exact,_ his brain supplied. _Not helping_.

He shouldn't be so emotional. He'll come back. Arthur will come back when the world decides that it has to have a pratty noble king again. Merlin was glad that that part of the legend was true.

"But the cabbagehead sure is taking his time." He mumbled, taking a step to continue his journey home.

Meanwhile, Merlin's got time to spare for a few hobbies here and there.

A lone snowflake danced in front of his eyes. He held out his palm and caught it. Slowly, it melted from his warmth.

Merlin loved the snow and, astonishingly, the low temperatures that came with it. Lately, with all the never-ending pressure and rush of the hospital, everything felt so heated like a spotlight solely focusing on him. Now, he basked in the numbing cold for the first time that year. It was refreshing. He focused on the cold, successfully erasing the last traces of That Day from his mind.

*When he was 23 years old, like genuinely with the mindset of a 23-year-old, he had battled a ghost-like creature called the Dorocha. His powers hadn't worked on them then (but he had no doubt that it would now) and theirs hadn't on him. No mortal could ever survive their touch. So when he had pushed Arthur out of the way of an incoming Dorocha, he had lived (obviously) because he was not mortal. It was painful though. Tiny but painful pinpricks throbbed on his whole body and the cold was unbearable, like the very blood in his veins were frozen and jaggedly flowing under his skin.

You would think that this experience would permanently traumatize him against anything even remotely cold. But no, it didn't. He loved the feeling of snow against his skin, no matter what his experiences were.

He shook his head out of his daydream. The streets were expectantly devoid of people, given the hour. A few meters ahead, he could see the red bricked paint of his flat. He walked towards his home, hoping to take a long undisturbed nap.

Or that was the plan until the road distorted right in front of his eyes. Stormy blue eyes widened. He stopped and mentally tightened his hold around his magic. Eventually, he realized that he wasn't causing this phenomenon. The air colored a tint of green before visibly swirling and twisting a couple of feet away, growing in size like a flat circular disk. The snow under it spouted eye-hurting particles around. Merlin took several steps back, bewildered. Then, like a piece of paper crumpled beyond its limit, the emerald swirl _ripped_ and concaved into a black hole. The snow settled back down to the ground.

His magic fought to defend him from the unknown danger but he held it back. He might do something irreparable if he didn't.

Then, from the circular spot of nothingness, out came a pale blue humanoid creature who spontaneously fell faced-down on the cement. Merlin jumped in surprise. The black hole had started diminishing even before the body was finished crossing, making Merlin wonder if every part of it made it through.

Then, it made him wonder if it was even alive.

The notion jumpstarted his shocked mind. He practically flew towards the creature, caution thrown to the wind.

_You idiot_, niggled a part of his brain (which sounded suspiciously like Arthur). _It's an alien and they don't usually come in peace. _His brain helpfully reminded him of what happened in New York just a couple of months ago.

This line of thought vanished the moment he saw the body.

It seems it once wore clothes made from black and dark green leather and metal straps; however, those were tattered beyond salvation, barely protecting the creature's modesty.

Without proper clothing, the creature's wounds were plain for all to see. Lacerations marked the entirety of its back, healing ones overlapped by fresh bleeding ones. The skin that was unmarked by the deep cuts was gifted with dark purpling inflammation that Merlin can tell were supposed to be bruises on the blue skin. One of its ankles was bent at an unnatural angle, already starting to swell. Its right shoulder was severely dislocated. Whorls of raised lighter blue skin wrapped around it like some kind of tribunal tattoos.

And there was blood. Lots and lots of it pooling under it, tainting the pure white snow like some kind of symbolism. Merlin swallowed down the bile rising in his throat and hurriedly crouched down. He place two finger over the creature's supposed pulse point on its neck, hoping that its anatomy was same as a human's.

A weak fluttering pulse. Merlin gave a short sigh of relief before gingerly turning it on its side, on its left less uninjured side.

His eyes widened at the sight that met him, horror welling up in his chest. If he hadn't been to many wars and battles, he would have lost his dinner on the sidewalk.

Crisscrossing stiches forced the creature's mouth shut, the thread thick and brownish. It pulled around the skin of the lips, cutting and making blood bubble. The creature looked like an emulation of one of those voodoo dolls.

_You don't deserve to speak_, it said. _You don't deserve to be heard. You don't deserve anything._

It was _inhumane_.

Resolve hardening, he reached down inside himself and called for his magic. He closed his eyes and pictured his bedroom. He felt an unmistakable pull of the universe closing the gap and redefining physics. When he next opened his eyes, he saw the familiar clutter that was his bedroom. He found the switch and turned on the lights. He removed his jacket, revealing a red dress shirt, and toss it somewhere in the room.

The pale blue creature laid still on its side on his single bed, the sheets quickly turning red. Merlin quickly got the first aid kit from his wardrobe, the box similar to that of a paramedic.

He took a breath before getting to work.

**~ . ~ . ~ . ~ . ~ . ~ . ~ . ~ . ~ . ~ . ~ . ~ . ~ . ~ . ~ . ~ . ~ . ~ . ~ . ~ . ~ . ~ . ~**

Every inch of his flesh was on fire, the agonizing throb of every muscle unbearable. He could hear the blood pounding in his ears, every heartbeat splitting his head open. Hovering between consciousness and sweet oblivion, he was barely aware of anything but the pain. He was lying on his side, he deduced as his left torso strained at his weight.

He reached out for his seiðr and regretted it almost immediately as a sharp phantom pain electrified his whole body, making every wound a hundred times worse. He gritted his teeth, waiting for the pain to settle down.

Ah yes, how could he have forgotten? His magic was bounded by the threads sewing his mouth shut. He would have laughed hysterically if he could.

Pathetic. Just months ago, he had unfathomable power at his fingertips. Just months ago, he was invading Midgard and causing general chaos. Now, he couldn't even move without hurting. Pathetic.

Suddenly, a warm energy gently skittered across his skin like water in a gentle stream. It caressed his battered body, easing and calming him almost immediately. The pain was reduced to a tolerable amount, wounds seamlessly stitching themselves close. In any other circumstances, he would have recoiled. He would refuse the help being given to him because he knew they'd ask for something in return for their 'kindness'. As it was, his body was glad for the relief – craving for something other than agony. He would worry about repayment later when his body isn't screaming in pain.

The magical threads around his lips were cleanly cut off. He flinched in surprise. He didn't know why he was astonished. Surely, if they were to help him, they would free his magic (so that he'd be able to do some compensation), right? And cutting the bonds would do it. But there was something . . . some fact his pain-addled mind can't recall.

He felt the thick threads being carefully plucked. No matter how gingerly though, the removal of magical bonds was an extremely painful process, especially ones as crude as his. All he could do was lock his jaw so he wouldn't scream (and make it worse) as the course material dragged over the inflamed skin of his lips. He bit back any pathetic whimpers that threatened to come forth.

An agonizing amount of time later (he felt like it was years), the last piece of the thread was finally pulled. He felt his advanced healing abilities as a god simultaneously closed up wounds and cure infections. He reached for his magic and it stuttered to life.

_Not enough_, he thought in frustration. His power wasn't even a thousandth of what he possessed. He was completely drained. He wouldn't even be able to produce a small fire.

He wouldn't be able to defend himself. He would be weak and useless, unable to give compensation in return for help. He wouldn't be _anything_.

Ruby eyes snapped open, glazed and unseeing. His breathing picked up, lungs hurting at the strain he's putting them. He panicked, usually suppressed emotions running amok. He tried to calm down, he really did. But the thought of being powerless yet _again_ would not leave his mind. The unbidden memories of past torture flashed before his mind and he couldn't help the shudder that went through him. Then, he started shaking.

_They_ would find him again, there was no doubt about that. And now, he's well and truly defenseless against them.

He felt hands on his shoulder and head. He recoiled, uncaring of the way his muscles screamed, mind still in the torture chambers. A voice pierced his ears.

'_If you fail . . .'_

'_Worthless Jotunn (1) scum . . .'_

'_Nothing more than a stolen relic . . .'_

"—right. Calm down. You're gonna hurt yourself." A new voice. "Please. Calm down."

He blinked rapidly. He managed to make sense of the jumbled mess that was his mind. No, he wasn't _back there_. He had escaped. Yes, he had. That's why he was drained. He had used the last of his seiðr to teleport himself out of that place. He had _escaped_. And he would not be powerless. His magic would come back, as it always does. In time.

He was Loki, God of Fire and Ice and Mischief. No prison can contain him. _He _had escaped.

A gentle hand grazed his forehead, fingertips brushing his dark locks. A comforting warmth enveloped his mind and he tasted Iðunn's golden apples (2) at the back of his throat.

The last thing he saw before slumber claimed him was blue – the colors of the waters once under Bifrost. (3)

**~ . ~ . ~ . ~ . ~ . ~ . ~ . ~ . ~ . ~ . ~ . ~ . ~ . ~ . ~ . ~ . ~ . ~ . ~ . ~ . ~ . ~ . ~**

Merlin dropped beside the bed, knees propped and upper torso lying on the coverlets. He sighed, exhausted beyond belief. It was late morning now, a couple of hours since he found the blue alien on the snow. His magic had done most of the work because it needed immediate medical attention that he couldn't provide and he was not bringing it to a hospital. Let's just say he's had enough experiences with scientists and government officials who thought it was proper to dissect anything for the name of science.

The creature wasn't completely healed, per say. Merlin had only managed to treat some of his worst internal injuries, which were a punctured lung, a broken skull, a bleeding stomach, several broken ribs, and a damaged artery vein. He had also managed to reproduce red blood cells quickly to replace the ones it lost so it won't need a transfusion. Merlin was amazed and bewildered at how the creature survived with those kind of fatal wounds. The only difference it had from a normal human's anatomy was, from what Merlin could see, fast healing abilities. The cuts were already stitching themselves and the bruises looked like they were several days old, even though they looked fresh some time ago. Well, that and the blue skin.

He wiped away the blood around its mouth, which looks the less healed of all its injuries. He had set its broken ankle and right shoulder, binding them with gauze. Then, he applied some medicine on its back and other open wounds to prevent infection. The creature sometimes flinched and released some noise of distress but otherwise did not wake. He prodded the raised ridges of skin spiraling around its whole body, tracing a finger at the circular ones around its forehead. Unlike what Merlin originally thought, it seems the markings were normal for its kin.

With a muttered spell, the sheets were all white and clean of any substance. Merlin positioned it on its side, pillows on its front and back to support him. With that, he covered the form with three thick blankets and could only hope that it would warm the alarmingly cold creature. He had tried some heating spells but its temperature remains a few degrees below freezing. He hoped that too was normal.

Its clothes were cut off and thrown in a bloody pile in a corner. He'll burn the cloths after the creature wakes up, just in case there was something it needed from them.

Merlin ran a hand through his hair then, grimaced as he realized he had drying blood on his hands. Great. It took him a moment to gather energy to stand up and another moment for the sudden blackness in his vision to fade. Rubbing his eyes and realizing his magic was spent, he headed for the loo.

This was the third night in a row that he had pulled an all-nighter (what with his shift at the hospital) and he was totally knackered. And the couch downstairs was sounding incredibly tempting. But, shower first.

He removed his blood-stained clothing, tossing it wherever it wanted to land. He stepped in the shower and twisted the knobs until it the right temperature. He sighed in relief.

Suddenly, Merlin recalled a flash of red eyes, frightened and dismayed. He saw the way limbs trembled violently before he had to knock it out with magic lest it hurt itself. He had seen that kind of terror before, had worn it a few times himself.

The fear of being trapped. The fear of being hunted. A pang of sympathy hit him. And righteous anger was simmering beneath his skin at the realization that the creature was _tortured. _Tortured for gods knew how long. His mouth was sewn shut, for God's sake. What kind of sick person would do that? He wants to punch something because _no one_ deserves that. No one.

He closed his eyes and sighed, pinching the bridge of his nose. There's nothing he can do about that. Then, his eyes alight with a grave realization. Would the bastards chase after their escaped victim after knowing it escaped? Would they know that the creature went to Earth? He shook his head. He shouldn't get ahead of himself and form baseless assumptions. He's been watching too many sci-fi films.

Still, after dressing into a pair of loose jeans and a plain black t-shirt, he got a chair and stayed beside the creature's sleeping form just in case.

A few minutes later, he was asleep.

******~ . ~ . ~ . ~ . ~ . ~ . ~ . ~ . ~ . ~ . ~ . ~ . ~ . ~ . ~ . ~ . ~ . ~ . ~ . ~ . ~ . ~ . ~**

**(1) Jotunn - what people on Jotunheim are called**

**(2) Idunn's golden apples - they are what gods eat to have eternal youth and incredible strength**

**(3) Bifrost - rainbow-colored bridge that takes you anywhere in the Nine Realms (if Heimdall, the guardian, allows it). In the movie Thor, it was destroyed by Thor because reasons so it's kinda like 'in repairs' or something.**

**I really hate bombarding people with all these stacked-up information. Sorry but it had to be done. I haven't watch Merlin or Avengers in a while so they're a bit OOC. I promise, if I ever come around writing a second chapter, it will be better.**

**This was inspired by a pic I saw on Tumblr (yes, that one). And really, Loki and Merlin have so much in common. Magic, being cast out because of magic, dim-witted blonde not-brothers, friends who make fun of them, and especially their features. So yeah, that's my excuse.**

**Toodles, y'all~!**


	2. Go Panic

**WARNINGS: **None for this chapter

**RATING:** For teenagers and above!

**GENRE:** Hurt/Comfort, Friendship, Humor (a bit)

**A/N:**** Okay, so my muse came back. Here's another chapter. Hopefully, it isn't as bad as the previous one.**

**Disclaimer:** **I do not own BBC Merlin nor MCU. I hope I did but I don't.**

Darkness had fallen over the golden kingdom of Asgard.

Aesirs, dressed in tunics and trousers made from the finest silk, rested in the comforts of their homes. Tall and magnificent structures scattered all around the city, designs spiraling and defying gravity. In the center of the kingdom laid the highest building. Its shape was like the pipes from a pipe organ, gold shining the brightest of all. The songs of the universe reverberated along its walls, whispering secrets to anyone who care enough to listen.

This is the palace of Asgard where the nobles and royalty had the privilege to live in. It was made up of several floors and endless rooms, grand in every way, from its structure to the people who resides there.

A figure walked the quiet streets of Asgard, its strides strong and confident. This is one of the most respectable people of the kingdom and perhaps in all the Nine Realms; Thor Odinson.

Thor treaded ahead, mind whirling and shifting through a thousand different thoughts and worries. His grip on his hammer, Mjolnir (a weapon only he can carry), was tight, knuckles turning white.

Thor was conflicted on getting to Midgard. He should have been there long ago, actually. He had longed to see his brothers-in-arms and Jane (especially her). However, he was anxious on giving them the gravest news they could ever receive. His father, one of the two people who could see everything that was happening all over the branches of Yggdrasil, had assured him that Midgard was presently safe from all foreign invaders. Thor wasn't sure it would stay that way for long. He frowned at the thought.

After a while, he reached the outskirts of the great city, a high golden gate standing before him. Below them were the bluest and warmest waters of the kingdom, outcroppings of rocks visible through its transparent visage. He stood on a bridge; a bridge unlike anyone has ever seen before. It was straight and stable, no pillars supporting its weight under and no railings on its sides. Its surface shone with swirling colors of the rainbow, hues and shades ever changing. The said colors rippled like water whenever a step was taken, like it was alive in its own way. This was Bifrost, the bridge that leads anywhere in the Nine Realms.

After a moment, the gates swung open without a sound. The unusual bridge continued on the other side. It spanned several more kilometers long before it stopped at a golden dome.

He started walking again, covering several meters in a few minutes. Cracks were prominent and many on the Bifrost, reminding Thor that it had only been a few days since it finished rebuilding. And he thank the Norns that his father wouldn't need to use dark energy again.

The skies was darker on the other side than it was in Asgard, signaling that he was already out from home and now into the vastness of the universe. Below him was a different scenery than before. It was an endless and bottomless ocean of the cosmos and it would prove fatal should one fall into them.

_But not for everyone_, Thor thought as he remembered a certain _someone_ falling and surviving with barely a scratch. He mentally shook away the memory of Loki, his _brother_ (maybe not in blood but in bond, no matter what the trickster said), letting go and going to what could have easily been his death.

_But he didn't die. And that's the problem now._ Thor was horrified and guilty that the notion had even crossed his mind. Sure, Loki had made mistakes (some very severe mistakes) but Thor still saw him as a brother he always was. There was no doubt in Thor's mind that his brother still had a chance of redeeming himself. However, until that day, it was best to keep Loki under lock and chains.

A pair of dark feet appeared in his vision and Thor halted, coming out of his musings. He raised his head and realized he had arrived in front of the great spherical dome. Heimdall, the guardian of the Bifrost and the one who sees all, stood as unmoving as a statue in front of the entrance in his golden armor. His hands held a great sword steady, blade pointed downwards.

"Heimdall." Thor nodded in greeting.

"Thor Odinson" The dark-skinned god replied.

"Have you seen him?" Thor asked as he had asked Heimdall every day without fail. And every day, he got the same answer. But every day, he still hoped.

Yellow eyes turned to him, piercing and knowing as always. "I have." He answered in a gravelly voice.

Thor started, expecting that the reply to be the same as it had been. He expected that his brother would again remain unseen and cloaked from the all-seeing gaze. It seems today was to be a different day. Overcoming his shock, Thor took a step forward, eyebrows drawn in a determined line.

"When? Where is he?" he demanded, vaguely aware of the thunder rumbling in the distance.

"Mere hours ago. He is on Midgard." Heimdall said, confirming Thor's suspicions. "All I saw was but a glimpse before he was shrouded from my vision again."

Thor didn't want to believe it. He didn't want to face the harsh reality that Loki was again working to invade the realm of the mortals. But Heimdall's statement proved his brother's betrayal yet again. He closed his eyes briefly and sighed. Then, the implications that _Loki_ was on Midgard sunk in. His stomach dropped and his heart skipped a beat.

"Is—"

"Midgard is unharmed." Heimdall cut off, reading his train of thought. "For now, no invasions nor planet-wide chaos is happening."

Thor sighed in relief. "Good." He straightened his stance. "Take me to Midgard."

"Be careful." Heimdall warned. Thor looked up, startled at the guardian's tone of voice. "Before Loki was cloaked again, I sensed something . . ." the dark-skinned man frowned, lips pursed. "unnatural."

Thor frowned. "What is it?"

"I do not know." Heimdall answered. "But let us hope you never find out."

**~ . ~ . ~ . ~ . ~ . ~ . ~ . ~ . ~ . ~ . ~ . ~ . ~ . ~ . ~ . ~ . ~ . ~ . ~ . ~ . ~ . ~ . ~**

One late afternoon in city of Manhattan, one genius, billionaire, philanthropist, playboy named Tony Stark discovered something of outmost significance. Usually, when he says 'outmost significance', he means this-meeting-is-so-boring-I-need-an-excuse. Or the-pizza-is-getting-cold-I-need-to-go. But this time, the 'outmost significance' discovery was so important that he—and the whole Avengers team—should have been informed of _**this**_ the _second_ the Battle of New York was finished (that's what the paparazzi had called it).

He stormed through the wide hallways of the Stark Tower (completely fixed and improve, my good people. And in just a few weeks because, well, _money_ and Tony had plenty of it). His face was a mask of blankness but inside, his blood was boiling with contained rage. Gripping the Stark tablet in his hand tighter, he entered the living room of the highest floor.

The area was where the rest of team usually lounge. On one corner of the room, there was a counter and shelves of numerous alcoholic beverages (because to limit Tony to one would be a crime). Another corner contained some sort of kitchenette, complete with all cooking utensils and spices. Tony didn't know that fact until Steve decided to cook for them and he was as surprised as the rest of them to find that all the equipment were in the cabinets (Pepper, when you find the time to do that?). Next to the kitchenette was rectangular dining table made of oak and similarly designed chairs around it. Another corner container contained a television set, a lush couch and a glass coffee table. It had all manner of gaming consoles (Playstation, Xbox, Wii, and stuff Tony really didn't care about because he didn't invent them. He didn't remember inventing, anyway). Clint enjoyed that part of the room, especially since he had mastered all the games possible.

And in the middle of it all stood a wide expanse of space and glass-made floor-to-ceiling windows (wherein Tony got thrown out off but he tried not to think of that).

Tony glanced around, taking note of who were around. Steve was in the kitchen, cooking what seems to be an early dinner snack, the smell wafting tantalizingly in the air. Natasha, who turned her head towards him in acknowledgement, went back on watching the T.V., nursing a cup of coffee in her hands. The news reporter was saying something about a plethora of plant-life and crops unexplainably withering overnight throughout Europe.

Tony whipped his head towards the television so fast, his neck gave a painful twinge. Well, _that_ sounded familiar. The rage in him mellowed a bit (but not so much, mind) and a smidgen of concern replaced it.

"JARVIS, call Clint and Bruce here. Tell them it's important." He said, already walking to sit on the couch.

"_Very well, Sir."_ The A.I. responded.

Beside him, Natasha cocked a questioning brow. It went unnoticed as Tony gave all his attention to the news. The headlines _Plants and Trees in Parts of Europe Dying; Botanists and Meteorologists at a Loss _were glaring at the bottom of the screen. Tony recalled a similar phenomenon happening several years ago and he knew that only one thing can cause that. Or rather, only one person.

"Everything okay?" Steve's voice snapped Tony out of his reverie. It reminded him of the unpleasant fact he had uncovered and he hid a grimace. There was a _CLICK_ from the kitchen, the stove being turned off.

"No." Tony replied. He'll worry about the other thing later. Right now, the anger he felt came back tenfold. "And I plan to make it worse."

From the corner of his eye, Tony saw Steve frown at his reply. Natasha opened her mouth to say something intimidating but she didn't get the chance as the elevator dinged. The metal doors slid open to reveal an annoyed Clint and a timid Bruce.

"This better be good." Clint snapped, approaching the three. "I don't like being disturbed from my practice."

Bruce silently followed, shooting an inquiring glance at Tony. Meanwhile, Tony studied his nails, feigning nonchalance.

"What level is your S.H.I.E.L.D. clearance?" Tony asked.

"What?" Clint exchanged glances with the blank-faced Natasha beside him. "Why?"

"Tell me and I'll tell you why."

After a moment's hesitation, Clint answered. "Level 6."

"The highest." Natasha informed them, giving away the fact that she was also on the same level.

Tony snorted. "Apparently not. There's a level 7."

Both assassins gave him a surprise and skeptical look. Tony was glad because it meant they weren't part of the stunt that Director Eye-Patch pulled on them. That or they were both great actors. It wouldn't be so far-fetched. Steve, a man out of time, didn't fully understand what was going on. And he said as much.

Bruce was kind enough to explain. "Government agencies tend to have a lot of classified information. The higher the level clearance you have, the more of that information you have access to." The scientist turned to Tony. "So there's a secret higher level. It's not unusual."

A cruel smile made its way to the billionaire's. "It is when a dead man is leading it."

"What?"

Tony leaned back against the sofa and crossed his arms, fists clenched tightly. He worked his jaw, trying to calm down enough to tell his teammates of his discovery. Natasha, Bruce and Steve waited patiently for him to explain himself.

Clint had no such compunction. "Dead man? You sure you didn't drink anything before you got here, did you?"

The billionaire didn't reply. Instead, Tony deftly grabbed the Stark Tablet he placed on the table. He tapped on it a few times.

After swiping a few more here and there, he spoke up but not to the gathered superheroes around him. "JARVIS, put this on screen." He waved a hand at the television in front of them.

"_My pleasure, Sir."_ If they heard the condescending tone in the A.I. voice, they wisely chose to ignore it, as they always had.

The news on T.V. flickered out and a different and surprising image replaced it. The whole team that wasn't Tony gaped openly. On the screen was a picture of Agent Phil Coulson, a man they thought dead before the Battle of New York. And above it, in big bold red letters, said, "On Active Duty". Below, in a much smaller font, was "Level Clearance: 7". On the side, a great amount of texts was the short biography of the agent and nothing stated that he was dead.

After a few moments, Tony broke the silence. "Apparently, Level 7 means gathering more capable people like us and _offering_ them a chance to join the Avengers." Tony's expression darkened. "But frankly, I don't care about that. What I care about is why the hell would they went and made us think Coulson was dead?"

Bruce answered, "Well, it makes sense." All eyes turned to him. "His supposed death ignited a common goal in us. It forced us to work together as a team and defeat Loki. A form of manipulation." Bruce's eyes darkened a bit. "Doesn't mean we have to like it."

"Then, why the hell didn't they tell us after we defeated the son of a bitch?" Tony snarled, agitated.

Natasha's look became contemplative. "It became irrelevant." She answered

"_Irrelevant?_" Tony couldn't help the rising of his voice. He opened his mouth to give a scathing remark.

A bellowing thunder shook the whole building to the core, interrupting their discussion. Natasha and Clint instinctively crouched down, trained eyes darting everywhere at once. Steve and Bruce held on to the back of the couch lest they fall on the unforgiving ground. Tony gripped his wrist, making sure that the bracelet for his suit was secure and functioning.

The lights and television flickered on and off until the electricity short-circuited and plunged the room in the early evening darkness. And Tony had a mounting suspicion on what had caused all this. He hoped to another god that none of his inventions downstairs were affected or he'll give that blonde brick a beating. (And yes, he's capable of doing that)

"My friends!" a deep voice sounded from the balcony. Natasha and Clint relaxed, immediately recognizing the voice. Steve frowned in what can only be disapproval. Bruce just shook his head in exasperation.

"Nice going, Blondie . . ." Tony trailed off as the God of Thunder swept in the room.

Thor was wearing his usual attire of chainmail and a bellowing cape (and really? Tony thought it was fairly uncomfortable). His brows were furrowed into a determined line. His grip on his hammer was so tight, Tony can see his knuckles turning white.

Tony had a feeling that he would need more than a bottle of whiskey after hearing whatever bad news the god was bearing.

A couple of hours later, he would realize how right he was.

**~ . ~ . ~ . ~ . ~ . ~ . ~ . ~ . ~ . ~ . ~ . ~ . ~ . ~ . ~ . ~ . ~ . ~ . ~ . ~ . ~ . ~ . ~**

_DING DONG_

Merlin was pulled away from the sea of colors and the feeling of flying as he blinked awake. For a moment, he felt greatly disoriented and confused. There was an incessant pounding inside his head, throbbing in time with his heartbeat. He slowly lifted himself up from the covers he had been crouching on. His spine and back muscles protested at the movement and he winced. The blinds on his window were down but shafts of light from the sinking sun bleed through the slits. Why the bloody hell hadn't he slept on his bed?

He glanced upon said bed and remembered why.

The blue creature lay on its side, still in the same position Merlin had placed it last night. The blanket he placed on it were unmoved, covering up until its shoulders. There was furrow on its brow and its lips pursed together in a downward line. And really, Merlin should stop referring to him as an 'it', even in his mind. Quite obviously, the creature had the anatomy and features similar to that of a human male.

Merlin placed a hand on the creature's head to hopefully magic away whatever nightmare he was in. He never really delved into magic involving the mind because the he knew the brain was a very complex organ. He did not want to risk messing up someone's mental abilities. But, after experiencing quite a number of sleepless nights, he had perfected the art of vanquishing nightmares after a little experimenting with himself.

He reached for his magic and . . .

Bugger.

He groaned mournfully and pulled his hand back. Apparently, messing with the balance of the universe and trying to twist the life-and-death rule comes with a great price.

He doesn't usually use healing magic on any living creature, especially ones near to death as that creature obviously was. The Old Religion – the source of his magic – abides by one rule and one rule only; a life for a life. And he did took life. For that couple of hours, he guided his magic throughout the continent, gathering life energies of plants and trees. He needed to kill literally a thousand of them so that it would amount to the creature's life. It was an intricate and dangerous spell indeed for his magic could have easily spun out of control and his own soul would be lost to the wind. It was one he had learned (with just brute force and absolutely no amount of thinking) just a couple of decades ago and one he hasn't used since.

He hadn't used it because it completely drained away his magic. And he won't be getting it back for quite a while. He gave an exhausted sigh. He had hoped that it won't be the case this time but he will have to make do.

_DING DONG_

Merlin jerked, finally recalling that the sound of the doorbell was what woke him up. The figure on the bed made a noise of displeasure at the sound and shifted slightly. Casting another glance at the blue creature, he unsteadily rose to his feet. He stumbled out of the bedroom, ignoring the pain in his head and the ache all over his body. He ran downstairs, which did not help the nausea settling in his stomach, and came upon his rather messy living room. He paused for a while, swallowing and hoping he won't throw up.

_Okay, note to self, do not overuse your magic ever again_. Which was a useless note, seeing as he will probably do it again. He could see Gaius, the Court Physician of Camelot and his caring mentor, already raising his Eyebrow of Doom in disapproval.

_DING DONG_

"Coming!" he shouted and his throbbing head reminded him that it was not a good idea to raise his voice.

He unlocked the front door and opened it just enough that he can peek through. Seeing impatient men in policemen's uniform made Merlin blinked. He opened the door fully, the chilly evening air prickling his exposed skin.

"Er—What can I do for you, officers?" Merlin asked, trying to keep a polite smile on his face.

The tall brunette one cleared his throat. "Good evening, Mr. . . ?"

"Marvin Ambrose." Merlin supplied, realizing the officer's need for his (fake) name.

The brunette noted it down on his small journal. Merlin thought he probably wrote down a few more details because he was sure his (fake) name wasn't that long. He hoped it didn't say anything about his ears.

"I'm Inspector Smith and this is Inspector Matthews." The tall one introduced, tipping his hat slightly.

"Mr. Ambrose." The shorter large officer spoke gruffly. Merlin managed to bit back the 'You really should stop smoking' reply that his doctor mind wanted him to say. "You live alone?"

"Yes . . .?" Merlin's eyes caught a movement further down the street.

He turned his head to the commotion and his stomach dropped. A certain part of the road was cordoned off with a yellow tape, the wind making it flutter relentlessly. People in uniforms were wandering and muttering around, some taking pictures and others marking evidence. A forensic person took out a small test tube and dabbed a cotton bud on the snow.

More specifically, on the large puddle of dried blood on the snow.

Merlin fought down the urge to groan. Damn it, how could he have forgotten about that?

"Did you see or hear anything suspicious last night? Around 3 or 4 AM?"

Merlin turned his attention back to the officers._ Keep calm. Keep calm. They don't suspect you._ It didn't help that felt like the culprit in a detective drama. _It's okay. You did nothing wrong._

"Um, I don't know. I had a late shift at the hospital last night." Merlin admitted. "I've been sleeping since then."

"You a doctor?" Inspector Smith asked without looking up from his journal.

"Yeah. At Albion Hospital." Merlin rubbed the back of his neck nervously. _Now ask a question. You're supposed to be clueless. _"So . . . have you confirmed if it's human's? The blood, I mean?" And_ bugger,_ because it's not. It was the blood of an injured alien from who-knows-where. Those forensic people are not stupid. They will figure it out eventually.

"Not yet." Inspector Matthews replied. "But hopefully it'll turn out to be a false alarm. Because with that amount of blood, whoever's it was is probably dead right now."

_Right, dead and totally not in my bedroom recuperating._

He was asked a few more questions, which he answered with half-truths, before they gave him a calling card. "Call if you remember anything else." They didn't seem suspicious of him and boy, was Merlin glad.

He closed the door and locking it swiftly, he sighed in relief. What should he do? He pinched the bridge of his nose, headache worsening as his mind worried over the issue. If they find out that the blood was not human's . . . Merlin blinked. Maybe he shouldn't worry too much. Stranger things have happened on Earth and he was pretty sure people wouldn't panic too much. He was sure there was no CCTV cameras anywhere near the area because he made sure of it before he moved in. There was nothing to connect him to the incident. The worse that could happen was for S.H.I.E.L.D (that 'secret' organization responsible for the nuclear missile gifted to New York) to come knocking on his door and he could handle them (he had before)

Nodding to himself, he let the matter go. It will all die down after a while when they found no body to go with the blood.

Hopefully.

**~ . ~ . ~ . ~ . ~ . ~ . ~ . ~ . ~ . ~ . ~ . ~ . ~ . ~ . ~ . ~ . ~ . ~ . ~ . ~ . ~ . ~ . ~**

**And people, I shit you not. Agent Phil Coulson IS ALIVE! Like canonically alive because fans couldn't allow him to be dead.**

**Okay, so that's it for chapter 2. **

**Thanks for reading!**


	3. Wake up, God of Lies

**WARNINGS: **Descriptions of torture but not too graphic 'cause I suck at describing things. Oh, and misplaced angst.

**RATING:** For teenagers and above!

**GENRE:** Hurt/Comfort, Friendship, Humor (a bit)

**A/N:**** At first, I didn't really have a clear plot for this but I thought about it now. This will contain gratuitous BROMANCE (i.e. very close friendship). I would not recommend seeing it as slash (I'm not adverse to that sort of thing though [just look at my favorites!]) because . . . . well, just because it will work better if it's just bromance.**

**Disclaimer:** **I do not own BBC Merlin nor MCU.**

_A laugh. A loud ugly sadistic laugh. Darkness fills your vision. Enormous pain assaults your senses._

" _. . . crave for something as sweet as pain." A rough hand on your chin. The metallic taste of blood on your sewed mouth._

_You know what is coming. It has always been your fate. The Norns have condemned you even before you were born. _

_You kick with all your strength, felling one of your tormentors. You will fight, though. You will not go down as a pathetic sniveling weakling everyone thought you were, one you never were._

_A laugh again. But the agony is just starting._

_The sound of a whip meeting skin. Bones breaking and snapping. Muscles tearing and swelling. Flesh being stripped away like a pig's in slaughter. Lungs caving in and constricting precious breaths. Your body is on fire and you know it is not in the metaphorical sense. Your body is freezing, even though you know that should not be possible for someone like you._

_By the Norns, the __**pain**__. You cannot—No. You __**can**__. You have to. Endure. _

"_No one will come for you." You know that and you are not hoping for anything. You are alone, you always have been. You have never depended on anyone else but yourself (__**Liar, liar**__, who was that blonde protecting your back, then? . . . No one. That was another lifetime ago)._

_It has always been your fate. The political tool, the puppet, the defeated. But you will fight the fate the Norns has weaved for you. You will rise again, no matter how painful it will be, no matter how much you do not want to._

_. . . ._

_Run._

_Run, run, run. Don't look back. _

_Create a portal. Escape. Hurry._

_Magicless. No, no, no. No, never without magic. Magic is in your veins, magic is a part of your soul. You are never without magic, you are never without your trusted ally (your only ally)._

_Restrained. Bounded. Inaccessible. Cannot. But you have to. You are stronger than __**him**__, you can break __**his**__ enchantment. You can. Or at least null it for a while. Even for just a second. Just a second. That is all you need._

_Hurry. They're coming. And once you are caught . . . No, don't think. Act. Do it._

_You __**can't**__. You __**can**__. Agonizing pain. Every sore, every wound ignites with fire. Black spots dance around your vision, threatening you with unconsciousness. No, just a bit more. You can feel the energy, struggling to rise to the surface. Just a second. Please, Norns above, just a second._

_Hurry. Hurry. Hurry!_

Loki jerked awake, gasping with the sudden need for air. He was being suffocated. And being _burned _alive. He struggled with the sheets constricting his movements and breaths. He felt like his skin was slowly melting off his bones like the snow at the start of spring. His weak attempts to remove the heavy covers yielded little results.

"Easy, easy." A hand on his shoulder ceased all his movements. The covers were dragged back up until his waist and his skin was exposed to the cool air (not as cool as he would have liked but it would have to do).

He took in much needed deep breaths, settling the painful staccato of his heart. Once he evened out his breathing, he was able to note how his lungs didn't gurgle with blood and fluids as it did before. He furrowed his brows in confusion, unable to comprehend how it happened. Aches and sores throbbed throughout his whole body but it all seemed a mere prickling compared to how he felt before. It was so foreign, how his body didn't burn with agony if he so much as twitches.

But _how_?

Not one to be in the dark, he started sitting up to further assess his situation. As astonished as he was to find a pale hand reaching over to help him, Loki managed to slap it away nonetheless. (He may be injured but he was not invalid.) His whole right arm vibrated painfully at the movement, though, and he gritted his teeth. He raised himself up, far too slowly than he had wanted. Wounds that his abilities couldn't heal prickled with burning pain. Not completely healed, then, but at least at three-fourths capacity.

"Do you want some food?" a voice snapped him out of his musings.

Loki turned his head towards the owner of the voice. Narrowed ruby eyes met wide periwinkle ones. A pale complexion, dark hair, tall, and skinny; features not unlike Loki's Aesir form. If it came to a fight, Loki could probably take him out even in his handicapped state. His clothing told the god what he had already suspected; he was in Midgard. A mortal then. He bit back a sigh. Out of the seven other realms he was trying to teleport to, he had landed on this troublesome piece of rock.

The human was not treating him with a wary or suspicious stare. He wasn't in a cage nor in chains. Loki deduced that the mortal know not that he had lead an invasion against his realm. Or the mortal thinks he can handle Loki himself. The god scoffed at the presumptuous notion. Surely, it must be the former.

Then, suddenly, he recalled the sensations he had experienced the night before. That warm energy seamlessly flowing beneath his skin. That energy healing his internal wounds as painlessly as it could. That same energy engulfing his mind in a soothing embrace. That magical energy that was definitely _not_ Loki's.

The god stiffened as the realization washed over him. He snapped his eyes back towards the mortal, just noticing that he was blathering on about something. At Loki's intense gaze, the mortal paused in his rant and blinked curiously at him.

Was this mortal the one who had healed him? With _magic_? There could be no one else (no other noises anywhere near the area, the bed fitted only for one) and no other way to do it (unless those stupid mortals actually managed to create an advanced technology for that, which is doubtful). Loki knew that mortals with any magical bone in their bodies have long perished. Any descendants of theirs would have had dormant magic that will never truly manifest, much less be used extensively—extensively enough to heal such fatal injuries. Certainly not powerful enough to still be standing after what could have only been a grueling spell.

Loki was facing no mere mortal.

At the thought, a jolt of fear ran through him before he clamped it down. His own magic had yet to recover and he was still physically weak. With that knowledge, he realized he stood no chance now.

_That was why I am not restrained_. He was yet again at the mercy of another creature. Loki bit back a bitter smile at his situation (_the political tool, the puppet, the defeated_).

"Um, I don't know if you can understand me. Ah—" the mortal continued to falter, blue eyes darting about the chambers.

The mortal looked quite clueless and idiotic. A farce to get Loki's guard down, no doubt. However, the god didn't want to deal with all that unnecessary pleasantries and double meaning words. He opened his mouth to speak (the only credible weapon he has as of now) but all that came out was an embarrassing garble of words.

Loki coughed, realizing his throat was parched beyond belief. He was so used to it that it went unnoticed. Suddenly, a glass of water appeared in front of him. Without thinking, he grabbed the glass and was planning to drink it all in one gulp. A hand hindered this plan with an instruction of, "Slowly". He glared at the mortal but can do nothing but follow his instructions lest he further humiliate himself by choking. The water was cool against his throat and, for a moment, Loki felt nothing but sweet relief. Although, he felt curious pinpricks of pain as he drank.

The glass was pulled away and he was ashamed of the sigh that escaped his lips.

"Better?" the mortal asked, and the smidgen of concern in the voice disgusted Loki. Huh, so the mortal was aiming for the 'kindness' route, the 'get him to trust me' deception.

The god opened his mouth to say something scathing but halted as he tasted the (_oh so familiar)_ coppery tang in his mouth. He raised a hand and gingerly felt around his lips. His fingers came away with blood. He froze, shock momentarily overcoming him.

Somewhere in the background, he absently noted the mortal flitting about the chambers, looking for some nonsensical thing. Loki ignored him, eyes still on the blood on his hands.

And the torture must have lowered his level intellect because it was only now that Loki realized that he can open his mouth, unhindered. He can talk, he can _speak _("_What's the matter, Liesmith? Silver tongue turned to lead?")_ Sure, it stings but the _threads _were gone. The bond restraining his magic for months was gone.

The bond of which only Odin's blessed can remove.

"Here." Loki whipped his head towards the mortal who was holding out a piece of white cloth. "Um, for your . . ." the mortal tapped a finger to his own lips.

As Loki accepted the cloth, he kept a suspicious glance at the mortal. He dabbed the cloth to his lips, hiding a wince as the fabric made contact with raw wounds. Red quickly stained the white fabric and images of the day Loki received these very wounds suddenly flashed before his eyes._ A silver needle. Rough hands pressing down. Golden threads. Red, so much crimson. Muffled screams. Pitying cerulean eyes staring down. A pool of red dripping down his clothes._ He closed his eyes briefly, willing the unbidden images away. He pressed the fabric onto his lips for a long while until he felt the bleeding stop. Loki handed back the cloth and the mortal reached out to take it.

Suddenly, Loki dropped the cloth and gripped the mortal's wrist in a firm grip (it would have been a painfully tight one had he the energy). The mortal seemed puzzled but didn't recoil or struggle. Loki stared at the mortal's hand, a terrified sort of awe sparking in him.

The mortal was immune to his Frost Giant abilities. His complexion remained of pale pallor, not even a hint of frostbite developing on his skin. He didn't seem to be in any pain at all, just mildly surprise and curious. Loki relinquish his hold quickly as if he was burned. Just another disadvantage for him.

"What is it you wish?" were the first words that escaped his mouth. His voice sounded distant, cold and nonchalant. Good.

The mortal blinked at him, seemingly bewildered. " . . . world peace?" He cocked his head to the side. "You speak English?"

"I speak Alltongue." Loki replied dismissively. His mind calculated the first request (order, _**demand**_) and could not help but retort dryly, "And I do not think 'peace' is possible in your world. You stupid humans cause more chaos and destruction than any other realms could have possibly imagined."

"My god, you're a prat."

The exclamation took Loki by surprise and he couldn't suppress a terrified flinch. He tensed, waiting for the inevitable blow for his cheekiness. What he received, however, was a chuckle. A carefree and genuinely amused sound. Loki blinked.

"Well, can't deny that it's true though." The mortal shrugged. "But that shouldn't stop us from trying." Momentarily, the mortal's gaze went far off before snapping to meet Loki's. He gave a disarming smile. "I'm gonna make some soup. Just shout if you need anything."

With that, the mortal grabbed the bloodied cloth by his bed and left the chambers. _What do you really want from me?_ Loki would have called him back. He needed to _know_, needed to make the calculations and contingency plans. Then, thought better of it. He would find out sooner or later what would be needed of him.

The god took the opportunity to gather as much information as he can. He raked his gaze throughout the messy room (clearly, the mortal was unfamiliar with the concept of cleanliness). Articles of clothing and other paraphernalia scattered around the floor. A wooden wardrobe stood in a corner and a small table with a pile of papers in another. The door was left wide open at the mortal's leave.

_A test to see if I attempt to escape?_ Loki briefly entertained the notion of escaping. Then, taking into account all the possible scenarios, Loki decided it would be wise not to. He was at the extreme disadvantage. At least here, he knew what to expect.

Loki happened to cast his glance on a full-body mirror in a corner. Ruby eyes blinked. The reflection blinked back. He was almost surprised to see his (_repulsive,_ _hated, ugly, __**monstrous**__) _Frost Giant form staring back at him instead of his (_normal, borrowed, deceptive, __**fake**_) Aesir appearance. Almost. It was hard not to get used to it after months of being in the form. However, this was the first time in months he was faced with any sort of reflective surface. And now, looking at the battered and bruised sapphire flesh, Loki cannot help but feel repulsed by the sight.

_Monster,_ a voice whispered.

CLANG CLANG CLANG

A loud clatter resounded throughout the area of the building. Loki was pulled out of his morbid musings by the noise. He heard the mortal mutter curses in a variety of languages. Knowledgeable then. And – hearing a few more noises –seemingly clumsy. With his thoughts upon the mortal, he recalled a discovery he made a while ago.

Odin's blessed. The mortal was one of the few blessed by Odin. He must be to be able to remove a powerful enchantment made by the Allfather himself. The blessing could mean a great number of things, given the Allfather's encompassing abilities.

Ah.

So that was why the mortal had magic and was immune to his Frost Giants powers. His mind really wasn't working today if he had just made the connection now.

Loki sighed, not knowing if the Norns had favored him by bringing him to one of Odin's blessed or if they had condemned him yet again to be someone else's tool. A headache was forming behind his eyes and he pinched the bridge of his nose to stave it off. It was no use contemplating about it. He lacked both the knowledge and the capacity to do anything as of now (_powerless, defenseless, __**useless**_).

He gingerly laid down on his good side again, back still throbbing with unhealed lacerations. Ruby eyes drifted close but Loki had no plan on sleeping any time soon (_the smell of his own flesh burning, the feel of his bones hanging brokenly_). He was showing too much emotions and he needed to keep a tight grip on his expressions. He started compartmentalizing all the unnecessary feelings he had (_pain, sorrow, fear_) and kept them lock away at a corner of his mind.

Sentiments, after all, belong to the losing side.

**~ . ~ . ~ . ~ . ~ . ~ . ~ . ~ . ~ . ~ . ~ . ~ . ~ . ~ . ~ . ~ . ~ . ~ . ~ . ~ . ~ . ~ . ~**

**I love** **writing Loki! But I feel I got his character here all wrong . . . ****(if you see hints of Sherlock, you're imagining it XD)**

**Constructive criticisms are welcomed! Also, if you have an idea for future happenings in this story, please feel free to give a prompt!**

**Thanks for reading!**


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